


Claustrophobia

by Leaves_on_the_ground



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaves_on_the_ground/pseuds/Leaves_on_the_ground
Summary: John and Paul get stuck in an elevator.





	Claustrophobia

With a tug and a creak, the elevator stops abruptly on its way up, in a Japanese hotel, some time after midnight. Followed by a flickering light, it gets pitch black inside, before a small flare of emergency light ignites.   

“Great,” Paul comments and leans his back against the metal wall, the cold sensation of it cools the back of his head. He closes his eyes for a moment, then slowly opens them again to cast a brief glance at John, who’s unusually quiet as there’s not a single profanity that escapes his mouth. He just stands there, in the middle of the elevator, his eyes unfocused. “John?” Paul asks, uncertain. “Are you all right?”

Not right off, but later John stares at Paul, looking as if he’s just woken up from an uneasy sleep, uptight and perplexed.

“Do you think we’re trapped in here for good?” John whispers, a tone of despair is clear in his voice.

“I don’t know, it’s Japan so…” Paul shrugs his shoulders, keeping his eyes on John. “Might be power out or something.”

“Oh, God.” John steps back and leans against the elevator as well, in front of Paul. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead, and his heart starts beating faster. John presses his palms to the wall, a lame attempt to keep his hands still. He tries to avoid Paul’s fixed gaze on him so he looks up at the ceiling, his eyes wide open – he can’t close them; he’s terrified of being cornered in the darkness.

It’s getting hotter, or so it seems, stuffy and stifling, and there’s not enough air to breathe. A scarce amount of oxygen scorches John’s lungs, and he starts to hyperventilate in numb horror: _they’re going to suffocate in here. They’re trapped – locked in, shut in, imprisoned! The air is lessening; and the walls are too--_

“Johnny?” Paul calls him softly as he moves closer to give John’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He’s astounded by his friend’s reaction, Paul has never seen John like this, but he also has never been stuck with him in the elevator either.

At first, Paul is hesitant to touch him as John looks so fragile he might scatter to pieces, but he does, eventually, carefully grazing his fingers against John’s back of the hand. His skin is freezing cold; his forehead is soaked with sweat.

“I can’t breathe.” John confesses, at last, looking at Paul under his heavy eyelids, which are barely open. And at this second Paul could swear that John is on the brink of falling into a faint.

“Christ,” Paul dashes to the button panel and presses the one with a bell painted on it. He doesn’t know if it works as there’s no sound or something that would indicate the signal has been received. A surge of disquiet runs down his body, but he tries to keep his anxiety at bay -- for John’s sake.

Paul gets back to him and puts his hands above John’s elbows, clasping him firmly, making John look at him, but John’s eyelashes are nearly touching his cheeks and his mouth is slightly open as he struggles to draw in the breath sharply.   

“John, listen to me.” Paul says, in earnest, staring narrowly at John. “Luv, listen to me. I want you to calm down, okay? Here, look at me.” Paul keeps soothing him, rubbing John’s arms and shaking him lightly. He’s almost frightened of how fast and unsteady John’s breathing is. “Just inhale and slowly exhale. All right, luv? Just do what I do, okay?”

Paul takes a deep and loud breath, purposely noisy, to attract John’s attention and make John repeat after him. It does the trick; unconsciously, John echoes Paul’s calm and steady breathing, holds the breath, and slowly exhales.

Paul smiles and does it again, unhurriedly breathes in and out. He does it again and again, until John’s breathing is back to normal and he’s relatively calm again. John’s eyes are now fully open, looking closely at Paul, and somehow Paul feels a sense of relief gently covering his body like a woollen blanket. Watching John intently, Paul let go one of his hand and runs his fingers across John’s forehead, wiping the drops of sweat, cold and sticky.

John is almost enthralled by this gesture. His head is spinning, but he doesn’t know whether it’s an extension of his sudden fit of panic or the intimacy of the moment; or maybe both. His cheeks are getting warmer, although he doesn’t realize it.

But Paul does. Even in the dim light of the single bulb, Paul notices a hint of red colour in John’s face. It’s not a blush – or so Paul reckons, but he’s wrong. He regards it as a short-term malaise and thinks there’s still a lack of air for John. So he lets him go and starts unfastening his own jacket.

“What are you doing?” John gasps; his thoughts are floating in a different direction from what might actually happen. He’s gripped by Paul’s long fingers as they quickly push the buttons through the slits.

“Just give me a second.”

When the jacket is off, Paul wrings it out into some kind of a tube, before he outstretches his hands and waves his imitative fan above John’s head, swinging it up and down, cooling John with the small puffs of air.

“Feel better now?”

John only nods. He’s ashamed for his weakness and embarrassed for letting Paul see him like that, exposed and unshielded, but at the same time he feels a trace of relief – it’s only Paul, just Paul, who solely knows how vulnerable John can be.

And yet John wants to groan with frustration, and thinking that he can’t sink any lower, he hides his face in the crook of Paul’s neck – and Paul, taken aback, but only a little bit, throws his hands over John’s head in a loop, with his fingers still squeezing his wrinkled jacket.

John’s breath and evening stubble tickle Paul’s skin, making the latter squirm. Paul chuckles quietly, releasing one hand (the jacket falls loose and straightens into its natural form), and pats John’s back, reassuringly -- _no one should know_.

John holds Paul tight, a mute confirmation –-  _thank you_. It’s been a long day and more often than not a petty little thing is enough to unhinge even the most composed and stoical man: the antithesis of John who’s never been known for being a self-possessed person.

Unlike John, Paul is this person, and when he gently pushes John away from him, he peers into John’s face with caution, checking both his physical and mental state. He looks better now, though his forehead still wet with perspiration and cheeks slightly flushed.

“All right?” Paul asks, his voice calm and plain, devoid of mockery or sneer. John appreciates it keenly and wants to pull Paul into a hug for a second time to show him how grateful John is to have such an understanding friend like him.

The only source of light, above their heads, starts glimmering, once or twice – and it turns totally dark. Silence reigns around, only erratically diluteted by two half-muted breaths, as if there’re no one behind the closed doors, but a deserted hall of ghost stayers.

John closes his eyes, though there’s no reason for that, it’s pitch-black inside and he sees nothing just the same. The darkness envelops him with a ting of unbearable stillness. And he’s about to discompose himself again. But then something new occurs, a new sensation, a light brush of heat against John’s lips, too intangible and feeble, and too good to be true.

It feels like a fleeting dream which has already dissipated, like a fog that disperses toward the morning rays; and everything that disappears with the light.   

The lamps turn on in a dazzling flash. 

The elevator starts humming again. 

And when the doors are opened, and the elevator is empty again – the secret stays in the confined place.


End file.
